


the truth is stranger than all my dreams

by nevershootamockingbird



Category: UnDeadwood (Web Series)
Genre: Established Relationship, Families of Choice, Friendship, Future Fic, Minor Violence, Multi, Post-Canon, Supernatural Elements, UnDeadwood, Western Gothic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-25
Updated: 2019-10-25
Packaged: 2021-01-03 02:03:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21171608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nevershootamockingbird/pseuds/nevershootamockingbird
Summary: “I don't think I've been more ready for anything in my life.” Arabella grins as she speaks, and Miriam laughs, loud and unchecked and beautiful.Arabella's heart breaks and breaks and breaks and she thinks,That's a lie, that's a lie. I've never been more ready for anything than to be loved by you.





	the truth is stranger than all my dreams

**Author's Note:**

> Another post-canon piece, with a little more of the supernatural this time around. 
> 
> I'm so excited for the next episode to drop tonight! I've been dying to learn more about these characters and their stories all week, even if it means that my characterization of them gets totally destroyed. 
> 
> This can be read as a prequel to my first UnDeadwood fic, but can also just be read completely alone; you don't need one to understand the other. 
> 
> Arabella dreams, and it isn't the dealer. Some wounds leave scars that aren't seen.

“If I die,” Arabella grits out, slumping down against the craggy outcropping, “Do me a favor and make sure I stay dead, Clayton.”

“Ain’t no one dying tonight, Arabella.” She watches him expend the shells from one Colt, then the second, sliding new bullets into the chamber, and presses her hand more firmly against her side. He peers around the rocks forming the canyon entrance, the lines of his body tense, and she readjusts her hold on her pistol, ignores the way her fingers shake. 

If they make it back to town in one piece, she has half a mind to kill Swearingen herself. 

“Bad news or good news?” Clayton asks without looking back; Arabella hears him cocking his revolvers and she snorts, looks up at the pitch black sky and wishes that the moon wasn’t absent. 

Her glove is starting to slip against the growing wetness. She swallows hard and keeps the tremor out of her voice as she says, “Why not give me the bad first? Better that way.”

“Amen t’that,” and she wants to laugh, just a little, at how he takes Mason’s words and makes them his own. “Bad news is there’s five more of these fuckers and they ain’t too far away.” 

“Charmin’. And the good news?” Clayton finally looks back, half his mouth curling up in a dark grin as he pockets one revolver. Arabella smiles back, real slow; she can never help it, with him, that spark always reflecting back onto her. 

“Cavalry’s comin’ in real hot. Get ready to jump and shoot,” he tells her, manic glint in his eyes as he pushes the brim of his hat up just a bit, and then she can hear the thunderous gallop of hooves growing closer. A pulse of adrenaline rushes through her veins, gives her the stability to shove off the rough stone and move forward with her friend, tensing slowly as she waits for the signal. 

They’ve gotten a little too used to this, these past few months. 

A familiar whistle sounds out, loud and piercing, and Aloysius rides past them not a moment later, racing towards the middle of the canyon like the devil’s on his heels. Clayton lurches forward, one step, two, and then Mason is clasping his outstretched arm, hauling the gunslinger up behind him into the saddle. Arabella watches half a beat longer, just enough to see Clayton clutch at the reverend’s coat and twist to point his revolver back, and then she turns to see Miriam rounding the canyon wall. 

She looks harried, and tired, and furious. 

Arabella doesn't think she's ever seen anyone so beautiful. 

They lock eyes for just a moment, and Miriam tugs on her horse’s reins, coming closer with every passing second. Arabella starts running forward, tugging up her skirts and reaching out, and then the other woman has her by the arm, helping her swing up onto the horse before letting go.

“You alright, honey?” The words are shouted back as Arabella clutches Miriam around the middle, twisting her injured side away as she glances back. These goddamn _ things _ are keeping up with them, maybe even gaining ground, and there’s a flash of panic in her gut. Miriam swears under her breath and leans forward over their horse’s neck; Arabella lets her grip loosen a little, brings her pistol up, breathes out real slow and squeezes hard. 

A loud boom reverberates through the canyon ahead of them, and even as the one she’d aimed at drops down, unmoving in the dust, two more are sprayed with buckshot, releasing terrifying shrieks as they do. 

Black ichor drips down their skin, but it only seems to fuel them into pursuing faster. 

“Speedin’ up might not be such a bad idea!” She calls forward, twisting around and squeezing her knees in against Miriam’s thighs. The older woman nudges sharply at the horse’s flanks once, and Arabella tucks forward towards her as she pulls her arm back, expelling her bullet casing and shoving a new one in. Two revolver cracks ring out, one after the other, and when she glances back only three beasts are still chasing them. 

Their eyes are so familiar. 

Aloysius drops back next to them, or maybe they just catch up; Arabella grabs Miriam back around the waist and looks over to their friend. He grins over, more than a little manic, and jerks his head to the side. “Spotted a path up ahead! Take a left when the reverend does, and keep fuckin’ shootin’!”

He’s gone before they can respond, whistling and urging his horse into a faster gallop, and Arabella tightens her grip on Miriam even as she chances a look back. Another booming sound echoes out, more buckshot spraying over the creatures, and she brings her pistol up as one leaps forward, heart in her throat. Clayton’s yelling something, but she can't hear beyond the rush of blood in her ears as she squeezes the trigger; the beast drops, and she lets out what might be a sob, might be a laugh, she can’t tell. 

Her vision is swimming a little, but that’s something to deal with later. 

“How many are left?” Miriam yells, either at her or one of the men, she can’t tell; they veer sharply to the left before Arabella can answer, and her pistol slips from her blood-slick glove, lost in a second to the vast expanse of dirt and rock. She swears and grabs at Miriam’s skirts, steadying herself as they straighten out. Concern is thick in the other woman’s voice as she calls back, “What’s goin’ on, sweetheart?”

“Lost my fuckin’ pistol! There’s still two behind us,” she leans in as she speaks, glancing up ahead. Clayton is twisted back, revolver at the ready as he holds onto Mason; leading the pack is Aly, looking back over his shoulder and winking when he meets her gaze. 

Miriam drops the reins with her right hand and reaches down to tap the fingers curled in her skirt, not looking back as she orders, “Gun on my thigh. Grab it and do not let go or I will be very upset!”

Arabella’s yanking at the fabric before she’s even really finished talking, pulling it up past lace and garter clips until she finds the Derringer. She grins as she says, “This would be so much more fun in another situation!”

Her lover laughs, loud and unchecked, and Arabella relishes in the sound, smiling still as she twists back around with the gun held up. 

The smile falls from her face real quick when she sees the beast arcing through the air at her. 

She shoots, but the bullet goes wide, hitting the other creature and dropping it down. There’s no time for anything else before claws are sinking into her side once more, a snarling face shoved towards her. 

For a moment, Arabella isn’t sure which is worse, the white-hot pain or the horrific, rotting smell of the breath that rolls out of massive jaws towards her. 

A horrific roar has their horse spooking and rearing up, and Arabella shrieks as the thing’s claws drag through her skin, slicing like a hot knife through butter before they finally pull free. Miriam and Clayton are yelling indistinguishably, but Aly’s furious voice rings out clearly, “Goddamn it, someone kill it!”

A crack of a revolver, sudden silence, and the thing’s eyes, eyes she fucking _ knows _, slowly go white as it falls away. 

There’s quiet, and then all Arabella knows is blackness.

* * *

When she dreams, it’s not the dealer. 

She wishes it was the dealer. 

There’s a woman sat faced away from her, at a familiar table, in a familiar house. Auburn hair is braided loosely and pinned up, curls spilling down, and Arabella wants to run forward, wants to pull the woman in close and never let go, wants the tears spilling down her cheeks to soak into green satin instead. 

Her sister always did love green.

She goes to take a step forward, but she can’t move, frozen in place as her sister lifts a teacup and drinks from it despite the smoke, noxious and gray, rising from the liquid. Nothing comes out of her mouth when she tries to call out, and she can only watch as her sister lowers the cup delicately before falling, falling, falling back in her chair. 

She’s gone, and then there’s a corpse standing in front of her, eyes milky and vacant, hair patchy, skin gray and sallow. 

“You know who did it, don’t you?” The question is gentle, not unkind, and Arabella feels tears well up in her eyes at hearing her sister’s voice once more. She can only nod, voice still taken from her, and the woman in front of her sighs, reaching half-skeletal hands up to gently cup her face in a familiar gesture. 

Her skin is chilled, the emerging bone nearly icy. Arabella can only weep harder. 

“I’m sorry,” and the words fill her with bitterness and rage, leave her trembling fiercely as she slowly, painfully shakes her head. A ghost of a smile, thumbs swiping moisture from beneath her eyes. “Don’t let him get you, too, Bella.”

White flashes across her vision, one, two, three times. Her sister is gone, only the scent of wet earth left behind. 

There’s a man sat faced away from her, in a familiar room, in a familiar house. 

The windows are shuttered and nailed shut. 

“Come have a drink.” It's an order, not a request, never a request. Her husband turns to face her in his chair, eyes bloodshot and mean, holding a cup out towards her. Dry lips crack as he tells her again, “Have a drink.” 

Rage bursts in her heart, and Arabella screams, and screams, and screams.

* * *

She wakes with a scream in her throat and a gloved hand pressed to her mouth, a heavy body over hers. The only thing that keeps her from fighting is the familiar scent of rosewood and gun oil, and all the tension melts from her body as she begins to listen to what Mason is saying. 

“Hush, it’s alright, I promise, you’re alright. Don’t move, you’re alright,” and he sounds a little panicked but his eyes are sincere, and Arabella nods once, stays relaxed. Her side aches something fierce, but she notes that the reverend is mindful to keep himself hovering over, covering her completely but barely touching save the hand on her mouth. Mason looks to the left, and Arabella shuts her eyes as he sucks in a quiet breath; she can feel the tension radiating off him and wonders where they are, wonders how long she’s been out, wonders where the others are. 

Gods, she hopes didn’t lose Miriam’s pistol. 

The hand moves off her mouth, and she swallows to try and work some spit back into her dry mouth, doesn’t open her eyes as she whispers, “What’s goin’ on?”

“Three creatures, on a ledge below us. The others went scouting ahead maybe twenty minutes ago, after we got you stabilized.” His words are so quiet that if his mouth wasn’t by her ear, Arabella doubts she’d even hear him. “I’ll let you know when they’ve moved away.”

She brings her hands up to grip his sides, suddenly aching for comfort; when she opens her eyes Mason’s face is in profile once again, eyes trained somewhere below them, and she doesn’t hesitate to murmur out a soft, “Thank you.”

Her friend says nothing, but way the lines of his face soften are more than enough for her. 

Seconds or minutes pass, she can’t tell which, but finally Mason lets out a shaky sigh and pushes himself to the side, sitting heavily on his ass and scrubbing a hand over his face. Arabella begins to push herself up, and he reaches out immediately, helping her slowly into seated position. 

Her dress is a fucking mess when she chances a glance down at her side. 

“Which of you did this?” She asks, unable to completely keep the dismay out of her voice, and Mason gives a somewhat unhinged laugh at the question. She scowls over at him, but she can’t muster any heat behind the look, and besides, the good preacher has his head buried in his hands anyhow, shoulders shaking helplessly. Arabella looks back down, sighing heavily. “I mean, I suppose it was a bit of a lost cause anyway, but this just seems a little unnecessary.”

A large swath of fabric has been cut completely away from the side of her dress, and her corset is-- “Miriam undressed you, I promise. We all, ah, turned away when it came to getting you out of that. It was impeding our way, and it was rather destroyed. She, uh, made it sound as though you wouldn’t really mind?”

Mason’s voice is a near squeak by the end, and Arabella chuckles as she looks back at him, finds him with his eyes averted and his cheeks stained bright. “Well, I appreciate that. She was right, that was my least favorite. Glad I didn’t wear one of her presents.”

“Oh, of course, I’m sure.” He meets her gaze after another moment, finally sees how she’s biting her lower lip to stifle a laugh, and then sighs heavily, embarrassment melting from his features. “After everything else, was that entirely necessary?”

“I’m sorry, Mason, you’re just too easy to rile up and I needed a laugh,” she admits cheerfully, glancing back down at the neat bandages around her side. “This all we had?”

“No, Aloysius stitched you up, too. Don’t worry, Clayton had a flask so the wounds were well-cleaned, first,” he tells her, more than a little fondness bleeding into his voice. Arabella can’t help the soft smile that tugs at her mouth. 

A shot rings out, then another, followed immediately by the boom of a rifle. They stare at each for a heartbeat, and then she and the reverend are lunging for the cliff's ledge, Mason pulling his shotgun with him as they peer over. 

There’s a path to their right, one that Arabella thinks might be what they came up, and on it lie two beasts, black ichor pooled beneath them. One still stands snarling, big and ugly and right in the fucking way of their friends. She sucks in a breath as she watches it tense and crouch, watch as Aly and Miriam and Clayton all scramble to reload, and then Mason is carefully bracing the rifle across her shoulders. 

Arabella holds her breath, covers her ears with her hands, and then there’s the muffled boom, the kick of the gun making it slide across her dress. When she looks back over, the creature is no longer alive and their companions are hauling ass up towards them. 

“Good shot,” she says, exhaling in a rush as she lowers her hands from her ears, and Mason scoots away, helping her stand easily. 

He smiles when she turns to look at him, a little sheepish, a little boyish. “Thanks for steadying me.”

“Always happy to,” she tells him, reaching up to gently squeeze his shoulder, and the reverend’s eyes soften, his free hand coming up to briefly cover hers. She’s glad he understands her meaning.

“Glad to see you up, Arabella! Sure hope you didn’t tear my stitches,” Aloysius calls out cheerfully, and Arabella turns to see him cresting the plateau, Clayton and Miriam hot on his heels. She glances down to check before gesturing to the slightly dusty but unstained bandages on her side.

“I’ve been careful, I promise.” It earns her a grin, and he taps her arm as he limps past her, moving towards where she can hear the horses nickering softly. Mason walks out to meet Clayton, dropping his shotgun a little carelessly so he can start to check his partner over with hands that Arabella can see trembling from where she stands. 

A flash of lace draws her attention, and she sees Miriam pulling her skirt up as she walks forward, tucking her Derringer back into the holster on her thigh. A tightness eases behind her breastbone at the sight of her partner unharmed and untouched.

“Oh, good, I didn't lose it.” She smiles at the other woman as she says it, feels it slip a little at the incredulous stare she gets in return. 

“Oh, sweetheart, we have gotta talk about your priorities,” and then there's a soft hand wrapping around the back of her neck, pulling her in until their mouths meet, Miriam’s lips gentle until they aren't, kissing her until Arabella has to pull back just enough to press their foreheads together, chest heaving as she tries to suck air back into her lungs. Miriam looks serious as she squeezes the back of her neck, other hand coming up to gently cup her cheek. “You matter much more than a damn pistol, Arabella, you understand?”

“I do,” she murmurs low, swallowing hard past the sudden lump in her throat. Her lover, this woman who holds her whole heart, smiles at that, the lines around her mouth and eyes softening before she leans in for another kiss, more tender than Arabella thinks she deserves. 

Probably best if she keeps that thought to herself. She’s too selfish, too hungry for this love, to risk it slipping away. 

“Ladies, one of you think you can help me start this damn fire?” Aly calls over, amused and exasperated, and they break apart with a soft laugh. 

“I’ll go make sure he doesn’t catch himself on fire,” Miriram says drily, not bothering to keep her voice down, and Arabella grins when Aloysius mutters something vaguely insulting under his breath. 

Clayton turns to look from where he’s tucked himself against the reverend, raising one eyebrow as he drawls out, “She wouldn’t have to say it if you hadn’t already gone and done it once before, Aly.”

He gets a middle finger for his trouble, and Arabella just laughs again.

The gunman glances her way then, and he turns to smudge a kiss to Mason’s mouth before pulling away and walking over to her. He reaches out as soon as he’s close enough, one hand on her upper arm and the other carefully tracing along her bare skin above the bandages. Arabella looks at him, a little amused, and asks, “Mr. Sharpe, where is your sense of propriety? Hardly a way to treat a lady, touchin’ her with your bare hands.”

The withering look she receives is more than enough to have her finally succumbing to the giggles she’s been trying to keep at bay.

“Fuck your decorum,” he drawls, glancing back down and smoothing over the edge of one bandage, calloused fingers sticking for a second before tugging loose again. He straightens up, keeps his hand on his arm as his gaze finds hers. “Real fuckin’ glad you’re alright.”

She can tell there’s more on his mind from the way his jaw keeps working, the furrow in his brow, so Arabella keeps quiet, takes the chance to realize just how far the temperature’s dropped, wonders just how long she was out. 

“Did you see the eyes on those fuckers, Bella?” He finally asks, words soft enough that they won’t carry, and Arabella doesn’t think about how the nickname stings a little more than usual. Instead she nods and watches the way her friend stiffens then relaxes with a mighty sigh, like a puppet’s strings being cut. 

She keeps her voice just as quiet when she tells him, “They were awful familiar. Quite a resemblance to Mr. Swearingen’s, weren’t they, Clayton.”

He sighs again and nods, squeezing her arm gently, and Arabella leans forward until she can tuck her face into the crook of his neck, right where his coat gaps enough for her to press against his shirt and vest, breathe in the scent of gunpowder and wool. Clayton’s free hand comes up to rest against the back of her head, heavy and comforting. 

“You think he’s tryin’ to kill us?” She’s loathe to put voice to the thought, but she needs to know that she’s not losing it, that she isn’t alone in this. 

Clayton is silent for a moment, and Arabella shivers when a breeze creeps around them, cold air rushing against her exposed skin. Her friend draws her closer in, until she’s leeching his body heat, until she can feel the rosary he’s started carrying in his vest pocket as of late, ever since Mason lost one of his somewhere in the mines one night. 

It makes her want to smile, how sweet they are on one another. 

“I don't know what to think,” he finally murmurs, voice slow and measured. “This ain’t good, though. We’re gonna have to start watchin’ our backs even more.”

“At this rate I’ll have to start carryin’ a mirror with me,” she says drily, just to make him snort and relax again, just a little. Arabella lifts her head, then, leaning back enough until she can see blue under the brim of his ever-present hat. “We’ll watch out for each other.”

“That we will,” he agrees, squeezing her arm gently. The set of his mouth is a little teasing, a little reproachful. “Long as we’re all a little more careful than you were tonight, I think we’ll manage okay.”

“Alright, I that's enough outta you.” She gently pushes at his chest, and Clayton laughs, letting go of her as he steps back. “Go on back to your man.”

“Yes ma’am,” he says, neatly sidestepping the halfhearted punch she aims at his arm; he laughs all the way back to Mason, who pulls him in with a soft smile and eager eyes. 

A pair of arms wrap around her waist, and Arabella melts back into the embrace, humming softly when Miriam’s lips brush her cheek. “You doin’ alright, honey?”

“Just a little cold.” Another kiss is pressed to her cheek, but the silence is loaded, and Arabella knows she won't win. She sighs, shifting her weight and mumbling, “My side hurts a bit, but really, it's--”

“Alright, let's get you to bed then,” Miriam insists, pulling and tugging her towards the fire, and it isn't long before they're all settled down around it. She's helped Miriam shove their bedrolls together, across the fire from Clayton and Mason, Aly splitting the distance. 

The fire is emanating a low heat at her front, Miriam is warm against her back, and Aloysius is singing low as he sits up for first watch. The ache in her side is mostly settled, and it isn't long before Arabella slips away into sleep. 

* * *

When she dreams, it isn't the dealer. 

It's an unfamiliar room, poorly lit, and Arabella finds she can’t move, leaned against the wall and stiff as a fucking board. A single oil lamp, flame dim and low, flickers against the wall opposite her, illuminating wood walls, wooden floors, strangely clean. There’s stairs next to the lamp, but it’s too dark to see where they lead, too dark to see any door or signs on the wall. 

Arabella realizes that she isn’t alone. 

There’s bodies on either side of her, leaned against the wall just like her, and it’s too dark to make out any details but she’d wager her entire blood fortune that they’re her friends, trapped down here with her. A door opens above, the lamp burns out, and Arabella tries to shout. 

Something thick is filling her mouth. She very, very carefully does not think about what it is. 

The door slams shut, and despite how she strains to listen, Arabella can’t hear anyone descending. A beat of silence, then another, and then her eyes adjust and a figure stands just in front of her, too dark to see save for their gaze. 

Sweet eyes, sad eyes, stare back at her, and Arabella tries to scream again as her sister reaches forward. “Careful, Bella. It won't be long, now.” 

A flash of white, and then the room fades back to existence, still cast into shadows. A figure is standing in front of her, too dark to see save for their gaze, their arm still reaching out. 

Bleary eyes stare back at her, and a rough hand curls right around her jaw, fingers digging into her cheeks. “You better listen up, girlie. Be a real shame if I lost another wife, wouldn’t it?”

The grip on her face tightens, and then there’s another flash of white, and then the room fades back into existence, still cast into shadows. A figure is standing in front of her, too dark to see save for their gaze, their hand now pressed against her throat. 

Sharp eyes stare back at her, eyes she’s just seen staring at her from the face of a hellbeast, and then Mr. Swearingen drawls, “Remember, you can always come work for me. Be smart, Mrs. Whitlock. Don’t go stirrin’ up trouble.”

Fingers clamp down on either side of her windpipe, tighter and tighter until her vision is spotted, and then another flash of white. 

They’re not in the room when she can see again. 

Arabella can only stare straight ahead, unable to move, unable to speak, as she gazes out across the too-familiar plateau. A shallow grave yawns open in front of her, filled already with bodies-- no. 

Not bodies. Dolls. 

Four dolls, staring up at her, each one identical to one of her companions. Panic mounts inside of her as she frantically looks them over, only to see their eyes meeting hers, imploring, pleading, still fucking alive. 

“And you’re next.” The whisper is insidious, filling her head until it’s all she can hear; there’s a kick to the middle of her back, and then she’s falling falling falling--

* * *

She wakes with cotton in her mouth. 

Arabella tenses as she tries to fight the cough that seizes her lungs and body, mindful of the woman still holding her close. She waits until the fit passes before finally unclenching her jaw, reaching up with a shaking hand and pulling white fibers out of her mouth, wads of it packed between her teeth and onto her tongue, suffocating and bone dry. 

Blue eyes are watching her closely when she finally spits the last of it out and glances up. 

“Y’alright there, Bella?” Clayton asks her, voice low, hand still stroking the reverend’s head where it rests in his lap. Arabella swallows hard, pulling a face at the aftertaste left in the back of her throat. His expression doesn’t yield, concern slashing across his mouth like a wound, and Arabella swallows again, carefully scooting away until she can safely pull Miriam’s arm off her and rest it down. 

The older woman murmurs quietly, and Arabella freezes, waits to make sure that she’s still asleep before leaning down to gently brush her lips against her temple. 

The lipstick stain looks a little too much like blood as she pulls away. 

Aloysius is snoring loud enough to raise the dead, and she looks to him fondly before slowly rising and crossing the few steps over to Clayton and Mason. She sits in the dirt next to them, unfazed at the thought of another stain on her dress, and curls her arms around her knees, drawing them in against her chest. 

A shiver runs through her, hard and quick; Arabella doesn't think about how she can't feel the heat from the fire anymore.

“Here,” and Clayton carefully works his coat off, swinging it around her shoulders. She gives him a grateful smile, shoving her arms through the sleeves and clutching it close; Mason stirs, then, grunting softly as he blinks up at them. 

“Clay, Bella? Ev’ryone alright?” He asks, words a little rough and blurred with sleep, and Arabella has to bite back a laugh at how utterly besotted Clayton looks. 

She has no room to judge, but, well. 

It's still pretty charming. 

Clayton smooths his hand through the reverend’s hair, fingers threading it through as he smiles fondly. His voice is low and gentle as he says, “We’re fine, Matt. Go back to sleep.” 

Another grumble, and the larger man turns enough to press his face against his partner’s stomach, arms coming up to loop loosely around his waist as his legs curl up a little. Clayton looks stricken, like someone's reached into his chest and grabbed his heart, and Arabella quickly looks away to give him a moment. 

Her gaze falls on Miriam, peaceful in sleep, and she has to blink against the sudden stinging in her eyes. 

They sit in silence for a long damn minute before the gunman next to her finally clears his throat.

“You wanna talk about that?” He asks, quiet and even, and Arabella sighs, hunching further into his coat. 

“Another dream. Had one earlier, too, after I passed out,” she starts, letting her gaze drift over to the fire. “My darling Mr. Whitlock is trying to kill me, just like he killed my sister. And I think Mr. Swearingen was in on it.”

Clayton sucks in a sharp breath, holds, lets it out in a rush. “Well, hell.”

Arabella snorts inelegantly, glancing over at him to catch his gaze as she says drily, “Well put, Mr. Sharpe.”

“Shit, Bella,” and he shakes his head, cocking an eyebrow at her. “What was with the cotton?”

“Dolls. When we were little, my sister and I, we used to have dolls that were stuffed with cotton,” she murmurs, shuddering as she feels the phantom fuzz in her mouth again. “My sister was warning me, my _ husband _ ,” and she spits in the dirt, suddenly furious, “was trying to poison me, and Mr. Swearingen was threatening all of you. You were all turned to dolls in a grave, and I couldn't do a damn thing, and I was next. I _ am _ next.”

Clayton whistles low, tilting his head back to stare up at the moonless sky. His fingers keep gently stroking through Mason’s hair. Arabella rests her cheek on her knees, watching the two men patiently. 

Shes more than a little afraid that if she blinks, she'll be standing back over that grave.

“So,” he finally speaks, after her eyelids have started to grow heavy again, and it takes some effort to find his gaze where he's looking at her once more, “I guess the question is, which one of them you wanna take care of first?”

Flames dance in his eyes, and his grin is slow and sure, spreading over his face like molasses. Arabella smiles back, a rush of clarity and calmness surging through her. 

“Guess we got a plan to figure out in the morning, don’t we?” She asks softly, and Clayton nods once, winking at her. She laughs, tugging his coat closer around herself as she stands. “Okay then. You'll wake me for my watch?”

“Mhmm,” and he’s lying, she knows damn well that he's lying and he’d rather wake Aly than get her up tonight, but she says nothing.

It's been kind of nice, learning to let other people care for her. 

Miriam stirs as she crawls back onto their bedrolls, and she presses in close, weariness sinking into her bones like smoke. A little adjusting, limbs shifting and tangling, and then she's caught up against the other woman, caged in by gentle arms and firm hands. Lips brush against hers softly, once, twice, three times. “You and Clayton have a nice talk?”

“Mhmm,” and she nods, nudges their noses together, enjoys the softness of the other woman’s eyes. “Gonna make a plan in the morning.”

“And what plan is that, love?” Miriam brings one hand up to gently stroke her cheek as she asks, and Arabella feels her heart split open again, sore and aching. 

“Murder,” she whispers, lips brushing against her lover's mouth, “Murdering my fuckin’ husband before he can kill me.”

Miriam smiles slow, catches her mouth in a sweet kiss before shifting back just enough to guide Arabella’s head down to rest at the crook of her neck. Hands stroke heavy over her back, and she sinks into the embrace, eyes fluttering shut as unconsciousness starts to threaten at edges of her vision. 

“Let's get some sleep then, honey. We gotta make a damn good plan tomorrow, because I'm tired of letting you go.” A kiss is pressed into her hair, and then Arabella knows nothing at all. 

* * *

When she dreams, it isn't the dealer. 

It's a burnt out church, broken bells ringing, delicate lace on her arms, three men leaning against pews with laughter and drink.

When she dreams, she's playing for keeps, and Miriam is playing even harder 

Arabella smiles, and feels safe, and knows that blood will be on her hands soon. 

Arabella smiles, and her sister takes her hand. Her eyes are familiar, and kind, and so vibrant she could weep. 

“Hold onto them, Bella. Don't let go,” she says, and Arabella smiles, and everything fades out and--

* * *

Arabella wakes to the smell of linen and lavender soap, to gentle kisses and the sun beginning to crest over the clouds and the men bickering gently over the fastest way back to town. 

“Mornin’, honey,” Miriam murmurs against her mouth, eyes sparkling as she pulls away to catch her jaw in her hands. “You ready to plan a murder?”

“I don't think I've been more ready for anything in my life.” Arabella grins as she speaks, and Miriam laughs, loud and unchecked and beautiful.

Arabella's heart breaks and breaks and breaks and she thinks, _ That's a lie, that's a lie. I've never been more ready for anything than to be loved by you. _

Miriam smiles, and kisses her, and Arabella, for the first time in a long time, lets herself believe in forever. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!! I really, really enjoyed writing this, I hope you liked it even a fraction as much. As always, tried to keep the characterization pretty spot on for what we know, but I couldn't help exploring their relationships further. 
> 
> Title is from "Meet Me in the Woods" by Lord Huron, because it's on my UnDeadwood playlist and seemed to fit what I was writing awfully well. 
> 
> Thank you again for reading! You can find me over on [tumblr](https://nevershootamockingbird.tumblr.com) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/daleytwin1) if you feel like yelling with me about these characters, this show, or, you know, anything else!


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